The Bubble
by ReadySetSail
Summary: Emma and Killian are old friends, both writers who avoid attachments. After a near-miss when they first met, they have an unspoken agreement not to admit feelings for each other when their paths cross. Until he shows up at her door. AU.
1. Chapter 1

_AN: Oneshot - AU - No magic, no Hook :) - Emma lives in Austin, TX, and travels often for work. Killian is a freelance writer who never lives anywhere for more than a few months. They met many years ago, but have a history of inability to get over their own stubbornness and admit their feelings for each other. Neither wants to be the first to show their cards. In this story, their roles are opposite to who they are in the show: Killian is more guarded, and Emma wants to see past his walls. Enjoy!_

* * *

The Bubble

Emma pushed slowly on the knob of her coffee press with one hand while reaching for a mug with the other. Just before she could pour the coffee, there was a knock at the door. She was expecting a few packages to arrive for Christmas, so she flung the door open absentmindedly, coming to an abrupt stop when her gaze met that of another person on the other side of the threshold. It was a face she knew well, but not one she ever expected to see at her door.

He leaned casually against the railing, looking slightly smug and not at all guilty for showing up unannounced. She gawked for only a second before catching herself and shifting her expression to the trained nonchalance she used in his presence.

Mimicking his smugness, she spoke first, "Well, well, well… if you were shooting for Venice, I'm afraid you missed your mark." Her eyes shifted down to the duffel bag at his feet.

He smirked and expelled a breathy laugh through his nose, maintaining that gripping eye contact that always makes her feel exposed.

"Is it alright that I'm here?" he asked. His question put the impetus on her to admit any uncomfortable feelings between them. She couldn't say "no" without a tacit admission to being affected by his presence. And because she had grown accustomed to their dance over the years, she didn't miss a beat.

"Of course! Come on in, I just made some coffee."

And he smiled at her as if she had just revealed deep affection for him.

He walked into her tiny studio apartment and dropped his bag by the door. She had never seen him in such a personal context, at least not one so personal to her. She had been to his flat in Munich, but that was fairly new to him at the time. This was her apartment of five years. It was populated by furniture that she picked out, and her books filled the shelves. It was a lot easier to seem edgy, as if she lived her life in the same spontaneous vagabond manner as him, when they were both in London, or Munich, or Istanbul. Now, he could see just how organized her life was. She felt incredibly vulnerable as he looked around.

"This is a great space." He said.

"Thanks. I like it," she replied, handing him a cup of coffee across the kitchen counter. "What the _hell_ are you doing here?" She asked incredulously, earning a laugh from him. She leaned her elbows on the countertop, gripping her own mug with both hands and keeping the counter between them.

"Well," he began, pausing to take a sip and swallow. "You said you wouldn't be here at the end of the month, implying that you _would_ be here for the next week or two."

"Okay…" she said with a wry smile. "I'm just a little confused because it sounded like you were just looking for couches to crash on while you were in the States for a few weeks. And I believe I told you that you were welcome to stay here while I was gone."

Maintaining the levity that helped them both avoid direct communication, he quipped, "So I decided to crash a little early." He pinned her with another steady gaze, disarming her.

They had plenty of serious conversations about abstract ideas and travel experiences, but they always avoided direct confrontation of their own relationship. She typically played along despite her own desires. The night they had spent together in Munich had been nothing short of magical, but even then, they had kept their guards in place. It had been passionate, but a purely physical passion. Since the first few months they knew each other in London, they had not discussed anything emotional. He turned her down early on, but never really let her go. They still checked in every few months to talk about nothing of consequence.

Still, she dreamt about him. She didn't want to, but every time her mind drifted, it settled on him. She could not let him see that, though. She had been the first to tip her hand all those years ago, and the rejection still stung. But here he was, standing in her apartment – she couldn't just let him off easy.

"Killian. You flew from Milan, Italy, to Austin, Texas." Her serious tone chipped at the lighthearted barrier they kept in place. She sat her mug down and gestured with both hands, "You're standing in my apartment."

"Milan is overrated," he replied simply, walking around the counter to stand beside her.

She turned to face him, slowly losing control over the façade of nonchalance. She drew a shaky breath as he stepped closer. He looked down at her and clenched his jaw.

Even now, when he travelled spontaneously across the world to see her, he was making her feel like the one putting her heart at risk. Why did he always act like he could see right through her? Suddenly irritated that he never spoke plainly with her, she placed a hand on his chest and pushed. "Why are you here?" she asked, shaking her head. "You can't just show up here and act like it's not a big deal."

"I know, I know," he admitted, gripping her hand and holding it in place on his chest. As his thumb stroked the back of her hand, he said, "I was just thinking about Munich." He smirked.

She flashed back to his lips on her neck and his hands on her body, how she was tangled up in him and still trying to get closer.

Blinking those thoughts away, she pulled her hand from his grasp. "So you're here for that?" she asked, "a week or two of Munich?" The question was direct, but her tone was not accusatory. She was not offended, and she did not feel used. They had used each other equally in Munich, and she suspected that his guarded persona mirrored her own and concealed deeper feelings. She intended to draw them out.

"Would that be so bad?" he questioned, inching closer.

"No. It wouldn't be," she said, holding his gaze. He leaned in slowly until his lips were just a breath away from hers, but watched her carefully the whole time. He paused and smiled, and she felt a puff of air from his nose brush across her cheek.

"…But?" he asked.

She smiled back and squared her shoulders without moving her face one inch away from his. "But I can't do that."

He remained still. His eyes gleamed, knowing that she still wanted him despite her objection.

"I have a counter offer," she said.

"Do tell," he said, placing his hand right beside her on the edge of the counter, his face still distractingly close.

Attempting to clear her head, she retrieved her coffee and took a sip as she stepped back.

"I don't really know you," she stated.

He furrowed his brow and tilted his head to the side in a silent question.

Putting one hand up, she said, "Now, here me out. We've known each other for a long time, yes, but I don't think I've ever had a personal conversation with you."

He raised his eyebrows in a slow nod, as if to say, "ahh," and stepped back, reaching for his own coffee cup.

"We have talked about music, and writing, traveling, whatever," she continued. "But I've never seen past your whole facade," she said. "I don't hear about what upsets you, or what you're afraid of, or the people you care about." She took a step closer. "And that's not a criticism, it has obviously been a mutual thing. We have kept each other at arm's length."

He stood straight and listened cautiously.

"What I propose," she said, stepping further into his space, "is that we press pause on this whole emotional detachment game that we've got going, and try something a little different while you're here in Austin." She straightened his collar and let her hands linger there. She watched his throat bob as he swallowed. "I can't sleep with you again if it doesn't mean anything," she said, looking him straight in the eyes.

"It wasn't meaningless," he corrected.

"I know," she admitted. "But we never let ourselves be vulnerable. We haven't ever addressed _this_ ," she gestured back and forth between them. She had not spoken with him so frankly before, and she felt freed by it.

"So, you're suggesting that we…?"

"Drop the act," she finished for him. "Just while you're here. I'm not saying we start a relationship, nothing that has implications for what happens after. Think of this week as a sort of bubble. We let ourselves relax, be honest with each other, enjoy each other…" she finished with a smirk, leaning toward him the slightest bit. "And then when you leave, the bubble bursts, and neither of us is on the hook. We can leave everything behind if we want to. We have immunity."

She sipped her coffee casually, as if she had just suggested they try out that new Chinese place for lunch.

He considered her quietly.

"Immunity..." he mused.

"Immunity," she confirmed.

Her bold attitude began yielding to insecurity. She sat her mug on the counter and started down at it absently. Her proposal hinged on the assumption that he had feelings for her, and she could already feel the creeping embarrassment of being mistaken.

As she started brainstorming ways to diffuse the awkwardness of his rejection, he moved behind her, placing his hands on either side of hers on the counter and pressing his chest against her back. He lowered his head to place a soft kiss on her shoulder. He breathed out a simple "okay," and let it hang in the air as his lips continued to hover just millimeters from her skin.

After a moment of stunned silence, she turned her head toward him just enough to rest her forehead against his cheek. His eyes were closed, and she felt his chest expand as he breathed her in. She closed her eyes and took a moment to think about how good it felt to be close to him, then rolled her hips against him in a slow drag. His resolve snapped, and he released a shaky breath, bringing his hand to her waist and then across her belly, pulling her hard against him and pressing his face against her neck. She shuddered, shifting against him so that her lips could meet his. The warm pressure moved through her body like melted butter, and she clutched at his neck with one hand, pulling him closer as his hand on her belly continued grinding her hips backward into his.

His tongue slipped between her lips. Her fingernails raked lightly down his neck. His hand slipped lower, seeking the soft skin beneath her shirt.

Releasing the counter's edge from the death grip of her remaining hand, she slid her fingers against his, stilling the movement of his palm across her stomach.

"Killian," she breathed his name with an almost moan. Her intention was to slow things down, to snap them out of it before the situation got out of hand, but he responded by spinning them around and pressing her back against the wall.

Her hands landed at his waist, and his were flat against the wall, framing her face.

When his thigh pressed between hers, Her eyes closed and her head fell back against the wall.

His lips found the spot just under the curve of her jaw and sucked.

She whimpered and was too far gone to remember to be embarrassed about it. He responded with a low groan in the back of his throat and dragged his kisses further down her neck.

"Wait," she muttered, still afraid to trust that he wasn't playing her.

"Why?" he asked, pulling back to look her in the eye, blinking a few times in an attempt to focus. His pulse still pounded in his ears.

Her chest heaved as she tried to calm her breathing.

"I don't want to rush this," she said between breaths. "We have time."

He leaned in close, grazing his cheek against hers and burying his nose in her hair.

"I want you," he said in a strained whisper, right in her ear. His tone was resigned. He would give her time if she wanted it, but he wanted nothing more than to take her right against that wall.

Her body burned for that. Her hands curled into fists at his side, stretching his shirt tight across his body, and she squeezed her eyes shut, steeling her resolve.

"I want you, too," she said. She unclenched her fists and ran her hands up his chest. "But we owe it to ourselves to take our time…" she fiddled with his collar, smirking, "...maybe talk for more than ten minutes before jumping each other."

He sighed and brushed her hair away from her face.

"I'm not saying never," she clarified. "Just maybe not the first night."

He smiled at her and stood up straighter, disentangling his limbs from hers.

"Fair enough," he said. Leaning in close once again, he kissed her cheek and lingered beside her ear, "But I make no promises about the first morning, love."

Her stomach flip flopped, and before she even noticed that he moved, Killian was pulling the strap of his duffel bag over his shoulder and gliding further into her apartment.

She slid down the wall to the floor, groaning the whole way down.

* * *

 _Thanks for reading! Let me know what you think._

 _For those who have read my other story: Your reviews mean a lot! I do intend to finish it, but got a bit sidetracked._


	2. Chapter 2

_Right, so yeah, not a one shot anymore... I can't make any promises that this story will continue, but I couldn't help but write another little chapter. Enjoy! I am very appreciative of the reviews and follows!_

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Killian watched with interest as Emma stood on tiptoe to reach two wine glasses from the top cabinet. His voice drifted over to her from his place on the couch.

"Sure you don't want help, love?"

She could almost hear the cheeky grin in his voice, and he chuckled when she ignored him. After pouring two generous glasses, she crossed the short distance to the couch.

She handed him a glass and sat with one leg tucked under herself, turning toward him and resting her elbow on the back of the couch. He lifted his glass toward her and she responded in kind, clinking their glasses in a wordless toast.

He took a sip and smiled. "And you say you don't know me," he said with a wink. It was true enough. If there was anything she knew, it was that the man loved a good Merlot.

"Your wine preference is hardly a secret," she laughed.

"Do you want to know my secrets?" He asked, his voice dropping a bit lower. Her heart fluttered.

 _Yes._

She shrugged it off. "Get over yourself, Jones. Now show me those pictures you were talking about."

After his surprise appearance on her doorstep that afternoon, and the heated exchange that followed, Emma decided it would be a good idea to go out for an early dinner. To a public place. Where he might be inclined to keep a respectable distance between them. Maybe.

Killian had leaned across the table as he asked her questions about her latest article. He had listened to her with rapt attention, and his hand had absentmindedly traced the wood grain of the table. His nimble fingers disrupted her train of thought more than once, but he didn't seem to notice. She constantly kept up with his publications, reading his photo essays and blog posts the day they came out. She was embarrassingly aware of his work. The questions he asked were so specific and thoughtful, she was beginning to wonder if he paid her the same attention.

Putting down his glass, Killian opened his laptop on the coffee table and patted the space right next to him on the couch. Emma rolled her eyes and shifted closer.

"Alright, here are the Milan photos," he announced with a flourish. He tilted the screen toward Emma and sat back, allowing her to peruse his work while he casually sipped his wine.

She loved the energy of his photos. He always managed to capture a city as a living and breathing thing - the cracked leather smile of the man at the gelato stand or the laughter of a young couple caught in the rain - the vibrance of a single moment. Even the still moments thrummed with a quiet energy. Her favorites of the bunch were a series of the main cathedral square at night. The wide space was empty of people. It must have just rained because the dark pavement was smooth and reflective like the glassy surface of a cove undisturbed by wind. On the backdrop of a pitch black sky, the cathedral appeared to be floating like a great ship on the ocean, its white facade like sails rising from the sea.

Remembering herself, she snapped out of her brief trance and turned to find him watching her. His jaw was set in a hard line, but his eyes were soft.

"You were studying those awfully closely, love," he said. Was he nervous?

"Yeah," she replied. "I like these," gesturing to the cathedral at night. "It's hard to imagine that place is ever so empty, did you go there at like 2:00am?"

"A bit closer to 3:00, I believe." He scratched behind his ear. "So you like them?"

"They're beautiful. These reflections are incredible," she said. Was he blushing?

"Aye, I like those, too."

"Are you going to publish them?" she asked.

"No, those are just for fun," he said. "For your eyes only."

She raised her eyebrows in a question, mocking, keeping it light. "Is that so?" She was giving him room to play it off as a joke, which she was 90% sure that it was.

He didn't take the out. "I've found that I get the best images when I think of you as my only audience."

"Why?" she breathed.

A playful grin raised his lips at one corner and he settled back against the cushions. "Oh, I think it's because I like feeling close to you." He stretched his arm across the back of the couch, creating a space for her to curl into his side and wiggling his eyebrows suggestively. In a counter move, she threw her legs across his lap instead. Killian threw his head back and barked out a laugh, then rested his hand on her ankle.

"You were saying?" she prompted.

Sighing, he continued. "Truly?"

Emma rolled her eyes, as if to say "obviously."

"We've traveled together a few times before, as I'm sure you will recall," he said. He began dragging his fingertips lightly against the exposed skin at the top of her foot, tracing around her ankle in the same way that he mapped the wood grain of the table at dinner. "You have an uncanny ability to bring a city to life immediately upon your arrival. It's as if the place is showing off for you. Watching you enjoy the small beauties…" he laughed to himself. "Watching you deeply enjoy the world is unlike anything else I've seen. And it's written so clearly on your face," he smiled, running his hand up her leg to rest on her knee and looking into her eyes. "Truly, I do not feel as if I know a place until I try to see it through your eyes."

She thought about the man at the gelato stand and the young couple in the rain. She thought about the joy that bubbled out of his photos. Her throat got tight.

She placed her hand on his where it rested on her knee. Breathing out a shaky breath, she held his gaze and rubbed her thumb back and forth against his skin.

He cleared his throat and straightened up a bit, breaking the spell. The cocky grin returned. "I guess you could say you're my muse," he teased.

Emma laughed and relaxed a bit, placing her hand back on the couch and letting her legs slide off of his. "I think about you when I write, too, you know," she said.

" _Do_ you now?" His eyebrows shot up his forehead. He was way too excited about this.

"Shut up," she laughed, smacking him on the shoulder. "I'm serious. I think it makes me more honest. You always see right through the bullshit. So, I just write as if you're going to read every piece."

"Which I do," he said plainly, as if it were a given.

She hid her blush by reaching for her wine and taking a large gulp. He watched her neck move as she swallowed and placed the glass back on the table. A red droplet clung to her lip, and she touched her hand to her mouth as her tongue flicked out to catch it.

A groan rumbled through his chest, and he lurched forward, burying both hands in her hair and sucking her bottom lip into his mouth. Her breath left her as she sank into the kiss. Her tongue slid against his, and he clutched her tighter. Feeling the rough hair of his stubble against her cheek as they moved, Emma instantly remembered when she had felt that texture on her inner thighs, shuddering at the memory of when that wicked tongue of his had made her forget her own name.

Her pulse pounded in her ears and her core throbbed for him. Her hands reached up to grip his arms, searching for something to hold onto before she floated away. His lips were soft and wet against hers, and the slick slide caused the muscles of her abdomen to clench. Suddenly breaking the kiss, he pressed his forehead to hers and tried to steady his breathing, keeping his eyes squeezed shut.

Emma's hands glided up to his wrists, gripping him tightly and holding his hands in place as they cradled her head.

"I'm sorry, love, I know you said not tonight, but I lost myself for a moment there." Killian's voice was strained.

She didn't respond, just keeping her palms pressed to his hands at the sides of her face as their heartbeats slowed.

As their breaths evened out, her eyes fluttered open and found him watching her. He smiled softly and she smiled back. She was about two seconds away from climbing into his lap and throwing her self-imposed rule out the window and across the street when he wove his fingers with hers and let their hands fall. She was glad one of them had the presence of mind to slow things down. It would have been effortless to get lost in each other, cutting off the first conversation in years in which she caught a glimpse past the wall between them. His admission that she inspired him warmed her from the inside, and the word "muse" echoed in her head.

"So. Where are you off to next?" she asked. She settled back against the couch, putting some distance between them.

"Not sure," he said. "I was thinking of checking out the Inca Trail. Although Machu Picchu is a bit tourist-heavy for my taste… might just bounce around some rural Andean communities for a month or two. Care to join?"

He was teasing, she thought. He knew very well that she couldn't just pick up and leave her job. Still, his eyes fixed on hers with a challenging gaze. She ignored it.

"Honestly, Jones, I thought you of all people would know that I'm more of an Argentina girl."

"They have the Andes there, too," he countered.

"You're serious."

"Of course I am."

She laughed, shaking her head as she strolled into the kitchen for more wine.

"Why not?" he followed her, becoming emphatic. "You've been in this city for too long. You need to get out for a bit. And I need my muse." He had stopped at the opposite side of the bar, and they stood face-to-face with the countertop between them.

She prickled at his presumption and skipped right over that last part. "Oh, you know what I need, do you?"

He continued, despite her sudden defensiveness. "I know that if I had been in the same place for two years, I would be losing my mind."

"And we're the same, are we?"

He paused for a beat as if considering something, then forged ahead. "What did you call it all those years ago? A 'mutual understanding'?"

She fell silent. They had not spoken of that conversation since it happened. It was when they first knew each other in London; she had broached the topic of a romantic relationship, and he had rejected her. She recalled using that phrase to describe how comfortable they were around each other, and he had agreed - they were kindred spirits, cut from the same cloth, insert your own cliche here. But still, he turned her down and hopped on a flight to Barcelona. She couldn't explain it then, and she couldn't now. It was months before they spoke again, and when they did, they never went near that conversation again. Even when they drunkenly consummated their non-relationship in Munich, she left early the next morning, honoring their unspoken agreement never to go there again.

"A mutual understanding," she said, confirming. She tried to remain detached, but her mask faltered as the memories returned. She tried to shake it off. She poured herself another glass with shaky hands.

He observed her silently.

She swirled her wine, watching it creep up the sides of the glass in a whirlpool that grew stronger and stronger until it almost spilled over, then she stopped. She watched the dark liquid settle.

"It's late. We should get to bed" she said, striding past Killian. She left the glass sitting on the counter.

"Emma," he pleaded.

She stopped and turned her head just slightly, but didn't face him. "It's fine, I'm just tired," she said. "I have some blankets and an extra pillow you can use."

She retrieved the items from a small linen closet and tossed them on the couch.

"Thank you."

"No problem. I'm just going to take a quick shower." She flipped the light on in the bathroom and shut the door.

Once inside, she took a deep breath, inhaling and exhaling through her nose.

 _Get your shit together, Emma. He doesn't control you._

She closed her eyes and pressed her hands against her face, continuing to breathe deeply. Asking for candor had been a mistake. Peeking out from behind their carefully crafted masks had been petrifying. She had not prepared herself for the possibility that he might surmount their walls faster than she could. She had called for immunity, but the whole thing had made her feel more exposed than ever. Bubbles were fragile. She had been a fool to think that this could be simple.

Emma needed a moment to regain her composure so she could claim the upper hand.

She shed her clothes and turned the hot water up all the way. When steam began to rise from the stream, she stepped in and raised her face up to the spray.

* * *

After a long shower, Emma tossed on an old t-shirt. When she opened the bathroom door, she wasn't surprised to see him sitting wide-awake on the couch waiting for her.

He smiled, and she sighed.

"Immunity, right?" he grinned.

"Immunity," she agreed, smiling back at him. "Go to sleep, Jones."


End file.
